


i'm the present and you know it (here i am boy)

by midzyzen



Category: Stray Kids (Band), X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, alternatively london is hell canon compliant <3, happy birthday chlo my favourite yes voter, poor attempt at scottish slang, scot au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midzyzen/pseuds/midzyzen
Summary: When Minho learns that Hangyul can't go back home with him for Christmas, he stays in London instead.
Relationships: Lee Hangyul/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	i'm the present and you know it (here i am boy)

**Author's Note:**

> pee pee poo poo...where do i start...chlo my queen ur the absolute loml and you know it...im so thankful for you and love you sm <33333 from all the scottish slang lessons to pee jokes it was a legendary year with you and im so happy to have you in it!!! ur the funniest and sweetest person ever and i cant wait to meet u in person bcoz i lov u and u only...moment! i wish u so much happiness, for lee know and hangyul to leave their respective groups and form a duo, maybe a new serve from ariana, april comeback, scottish independence and most importantly for the next year to be amazing and for you to find the happiness you deserve!!!!
> 
> i love you <33333
> 
> here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53HnQdPOji3SF18sEwLMEJ?si=eRVAaSwmRgi3yw5mQNQkCw), title from december by ariana grande

Hangyul has to stay in the city for Christmas. 

Admittedly, it isn’t the greatest tragedy for a self-proclaimed  _ agnostic atheist _ but Minho knows it’s bothering him more than he likes to play off in the groupchat consisting of their college friends. It’s Hangyul’s second year in university, but the first time he’ll be spending the holidays away from his family in Dundee. It’s at very short notice, too. The office Hangyul is doing a placement in informed him a week in advance that they’re going to be understaffed. This translated to him being required to do dirty work on Christmas Eve and then over Boxing Day up until New Years. Cruel, but Hangyul had no other choice but agree; he needs the internship and he definitely needs the money, something Minho can understand. 

He also understands just how much Hangyul wants to go home — that’s the one thing they’ve always had in common. 

Back in college, Hangyul and Minho weren’t as close as they are now. They were members of the same circle of friends, if anything. It’s not that they never talked, they texted ever so often, didn’t mind each other’s company, but they never made any effort to hang out together outside of school, just the two of them. It’s been the move to London that got them to seek each other out more — the little piece of home they had in the city. 

As time went on, it was less separation anxiety and more genuine friendship. Somewhere between the overly expensive train rides back home with both of their legs bouncing up and down, itching to get back home, and the nights spent huddled on the tight single beds their dorm rooms had to offer when either of them felt homesick, something clicked. At least as far as Minho is concerned, Hangyul is one of his closest friends, if not  _ the _ closest. 

And something doesn’t sit well with him about the thought of going home without Hangyul sitting beside him on the train, chatting all throughout the ride to entertain him. Or not having Hangyul walk him home from the station, taking the longer way home than necessary just to enjoy the sight of the familiar streets covered beneath a pearlescent pillow of snow just a minute more. Or not coming over to Hangyul’s house on Boxing Day to give him his gift and get to try his mom’s famous homemade egg nog, like he did last year. Or Hangyul not coming over to his on Hogmanay, keeping Minho company over his parents’ boring party they insist on throwing every year. 

That’s one thing really — the other, more heartbreaking than spending the holidays away from Hangyul, is that Minho knows his friend just misses home. 

Funnily, back in college, they wanted to get as far away from Dundee as possible. It was a dream, just to get out and see the world, live big with big dreams in a big city. Minho learned the hard way that the only big thing about London were the bills. It’s not that either of them hates it — it’s fine, it’s not a bad place to live, has its obvious perks. But it’s not home, it doesn’t feel like it and if anything aided to solidify their friendship, it was their inability to love it there. 

And they tried, really. Minho had a list of places he wanted to go to and would drag Hangyul with him whenever they both had the time. But it wasn’t as breathtaking as Minho thought it would be, because maybe he set his hopes too high to begin with. Maybe he expected something magical that just wasn’t there. Hangyul wasn’t a fan, either. For the first two months, he refused to go out of his dorm unprompted; if he didn’t have classes or didn’t arrange to meet with Minho, he would hole himself up in his room, hiding from the world he had wanted to be part of so badly under his duvet. 

It hurt to see Hangyul like that. Minho knew him as that one person who’s bright and outgoing and the centre of the room and everything you want to be. It felt out of character at least to see him give up that spark of his, the one that would have anyone turning heads. 

They thought it might pass after a few months, after the first term properly kicked in. But as second one rolled around in January, and after they both completed their first year and even now, by the end of the winter term in their second year, homesickness persisted. Or more so, the disdain for living in London, where neither of them could find a place for themselves, outside of each other’s company. 

They go back home as often as possible, which isn’t enough — first year’s monthly visits quickly became impossible with the growing workload. They could catch a weekend over the term if they were lucky, but in reality had to resort to waiting until the nearest break to rush to the station and set off back home. 

The first time they travelled back together, which was for last year’s midterms, Hangyul cried when they arrived and Minho had to calm him down in the station’s waiting room. He wasn’t sure if Hangyul was crying because he was happy to be back or because he was already thinking about the fact that they would be forced to leave very soon, too soon. He pretended not to notice Hangyul’s occasional sniffling on the way to their houses.

That’s why he can’t bring himself to believe that Christmas doesn’t mean much to Hangyul — Minho knows just how much he was yearning to go back home himself and he can only imagine that Hangyul feels similarly, if not stronger. And it makes Minho feel uncomfortable, the thought of leaving him in London; selfishly enjoying the holidays back home himself while Hangyul has to stay and work in a city he can’t stand. He doesn’t understand why — he knows Hangyul would be happy for him, just like he’d be happy seeing his family, their friends, feel the familiarity of the place he grew up in, but somehow it doesn’t  _ feel right,  _ he wouldn’t feel right.

The bile rising up his throat only dissipates when he cancels his train ticket and calls his mother to explain that he won’t be coming back home for Christmas himself. 

He doesn’t tell Hangyul, just to see the shock painted on his face when Minho shows up unannounced at his door on Christmas Eve. It’s more endearing than it is comical, with Hangyul’s eyes wide open and his jaw slacked. He’s in his makeshift pyjamas and his hair is messy, so Minho reaches up to straighten it out. 

“Minho?” Hangyul pinches his own arm and it’s ever so endearing how genuine he is in the clichés he pulls. “It’s Christmas, wye are ye here?”

“It’s Christmas  _ Eve _ ,” Minho invites himself in and strides down the hall to Hangyul’s kitchen. His flatmates have all gone back home, so they have the place to themselves. “And I’m here because we’re going oot.”

“Oot?” Despite the stupor, Hangyul still pulls out Minho’s favourite mug from his cupboard and puts the kettle on, almost robotically. “Wye aren’t you hame?”

“Don’t fash too much about it, London is my hame,” Minho jokes, “don’t you love it here? All the knife crime and moped theft and complete lack of a working class sense of aesthetic?”

Hangyul laughs incredulously, adding a couple of teaspoons of hot chocolate powder and pouring the water over it. It’s heartwarming that Hangyul buys the specific type of Cadbury that doesn’t need milk, because Minho doesn’t drink it. “Yeah, you’re right. Absolute banger, innit?”

“ _ Innit?! _ ” Minho gasps. “Oh, my God, you sassenach, we lost you, we really did. You’re a literal no-voter.”

“Dramatic ass—”

_ “Should auld acquaintance be forgot—” _

“With a voice like that, Scotland is never getting its independence,” Hangyul jabs at his stomach, before topping the chocolate off with the vegan substitute of whipped cream Minho taught him to make the other day.

“I’m the vocalist of our generation,” Minho scoffs, “you need a demo?”

“No, thank you, I’m good—”

“You sure? I offer hymns, carols..”

“I heard enough, spare me,” Hangyul cuts him off with pleading eyes, but Minho is having none of it.

_ “Mo ghaol, mo ghradh, a's m' fheudail thu—” _

“Fine, fine, yer singing is quality. Second coming of Lewis Capaldi,” Hangyul urges him to drink, a sneaky but successful attempt at silencing him. He’s got a weird talent of making the cheapest hot chocolate tasty, this is no news to Minho who takes a sip with a delighted hum. 

“Anyways, now that the carol singing is over,” Minho moves on, leaning against the kitchen counter, “you’re free tonight, right?”

“You’re taking me out?” Hangyul flashes him a grin. “How romantic.”

Minho feels his knees give up on him for a split second. Hangyul often makes comments like that, nothing serious behind it. And still, his words make Minho feel some kind of awkward for lack of better word. It catches him off guard, even after a year of them being close enough for that kind of banter to pass as acceptable. 

“Oh, you know me,” he plays along, though, not wanting to fall behind Hangyul in their usual push and pull. “I live to serve.”

“So, what’s the script? Where you takin’ me?” Hangyul asks. 

“I’d keep it a surprise, but we’re taking the tube anyways,” Minho sighs. “How do you feel about Covent Garden?”

The idea came up some time ago, when one of his friends, Wooseok, mentioned taking his boyfriend there to see the holiday decorations. Minho ended up enjoying the scenery as much, if not more, than Jisung himself, who’s quite the fan of tacky Christmas decor. Hangyul is similar, dragging Minho to Winter Wonderland the second year in a row in early December for his birthday, because there’s a festive charm to it that he’s fond of. 

It’s a family thing, probably, Minho would often pass by his house on the way to college, admiring just how much effort the Lees like to put into adorning the house with fairy lights in all colours, thick, iridescent garlands, the more traditional wreaths, flashing neon reindeers — you name it, they had it. Last Christmas, when he actually got the chance to come over to his place, Minho wasn’t surprised to find that it was even more festive inside if one can imagine. It’s rather ironic given that the entire family is atheist, but it’s sweet nonetheless. 

It’s a stark contrast to Hangyul’s accommodation, without an ornament in sight. Not even a Christmas tree, something Hangyul had at least five of back at home (Minho counted up two in the living room, one in the kitchen, one in Hangyul’s room and one in the bathroom, but he suspects there to be more). And maybe taking him to Covent Garden is a measly attempt of giving Hangyul a piece of home, but it’s all that Minho has to offer.

“That sounds nice,” Hangyul perks up, excitement flashing through his eyes. He bounces in his seat, before checking the time. “It’s getting late, though, I’m gonna get ready quickly and we can go.”

“No hurry,” Minho smiles, “can I stay over? Don’t feel like coming back all the way to Islington at ass o’clock.”

“You’re always welcome,” Hangyul yells, already across the hall leading up to his room. “There’s Mariah Carey Walkers in my cupboard, help yourself.”

“Not hungry,” Minho shouts back. He goes to his Sehun fansite list to kill time until Hangyul reappears in what feels like ages. 

Under his dark grey trench coat, he’s wearing a bright red festive pullover with a cartoon reindeer on it — a more toned down piece from his collection of Christmas sweaters with atrocious designs. Minho would tell him to change, because the last thing on his to-do list is being associated with anyone wearing such monstrosities in public, but he doesn’t have the heart to. Not just because Hangyul looks oddly endearing in it, but rather because it’s the happiest Hangyul has looked ever since he learned he’d be spending the holidays in the city. 

“Ready?” Minho nods, finishing his drink and following Hangyul out the door. 

The streets are still busy despite the late hours, as they head down to Warren Street Station, Hangyul telling him about the internship which Minho gathers consists primarily of: making his superiors coffee, going down to the Pret near the office to get his superiors lunch and organising files for his superiors. 

“Journalism, fucken hell,” Hangyul sighs, “and when I quit and skelp their tory asses?”

“I’ll support ye,” Minho reassures, “Scottish independence lives on.”

“Damn straight!” Hangyul says, as they step into one of the Northern Line trains. “Tory cunts, all of ‘em. The careers office at uni keep telling me to mention transferable skills I learned working there on my CV, and I’m like, hoot did I learn there? How to operate the fucking coffee maker?”

“Literally about to whitey,” Minho doesn’t know how to properly convey how sorry he is for Hangyul. He works insane hours, even outside the season, and he’s not gaining any experience whatsoever. “I’m sorry, though.”

“S’okay, I’ll live,” Hangyul reaches out to steady Minho as the train takes a sharp turn. “Hold on, will ya?”

“What to, it’s heavin’ in here,” Minho reminds him. 

“Hold onto me, then,” Minho suddenly grows hyperaware of Hangyul’s hand on his waist. “Don’t want you dyin’ on the tube.”

“Yeah, I can think of better ways,” Minho grabs Hangyul’s arm for extra support until they finally make it to Leicester Square. 

It’s a short walk from then on, with plenty of Christmas decorations, with almost every corner of Long Acre adorned with ornaments or lights. Hangyul doesn’t try to conceal excitement, he’s not the type to. Minho likes that about him, how honest he is about everything. It’s comforting, because he can tell when Hangyul feels annoyed, when Minho makes him upset for whatever reason and can act accordingly. Even more so, it is reassuring to know that every smile Hangyul offers him is sincere. 

Despite the people surrounding them in millions (at least it feels this way), it’s still insanely cold, especially for London in December. Minho blows hot air to his palms to warm them up, which is met with a worried look on Hangyul’s face.

“You forgot your gloves?” He asks.

“You know I always forget to bring ‘em,” Minho shivers, only now realising how underdressed he is for the weather. To be fair, it’s the kind of weather he’d expect up in the Highlands, not London. 

Hangyul links their hands and stuffs them in the pocket of his coat, “there, better?”

It’s surprisingly warm given the weather, but Minho is used to Hangyul’s radiator tendencies. The first time he slept over at Hangyul’s, he compared his friend to Jacob Black warming up Bella in Eclipse. 

“You can just cut to the chase and tell me I’m hot,” Hangyul told him then, earning a slap on his arm. Minho didn’t move away, though, finding the warmth comforting,  _ homely _ . It still feels that way till now, as they walk hand in hand towards the square. 

A weird thought strikes Minho, as he realises just how many passers-by must have assumed they were dating. It should weird him out more than it does, but strangely, the idea sits with him well — too well for his liking. It’s creepy and possessive and delusional, because they aren’t together. They’re friends and Minho doesn’t know where the sudden inclination for being recognised as more comes from. He doesn’t pay it much thought, partially because it’s the last thing he wants to do and mostly because they arrived and Hangyul is dragging him in the direction of an over the top Christmas tree, demanding Minho take a picture of him “ _ for the ‘gram”. _

__

__ “You want a photo with a Christmas tree that’s white and red?” Minho asks, but takes his friend’s phone anyway. He takes a few steps back to capture Hangyul and the background well. “Sassenaching for social media, how pitiful.”

“Shut yer gob,” Hangyul says, finding a relatively unoccupied spot to pose at. “It’s pretty.”

“Fucken magnificent,” Minho has to admit that Hangyul is insanely photogenic. No matter the angle, each photo comes out effortlessly good. He takes a few more than necessary, unable to take his eyes off from the phone screen. “Cummoan now, let’s go see things.”

Hangyul returns to his side, going through the photos with a grin, “can we take more pictures?”

“You mean can  _ I  _ take more pictures,” Minho corrects him, “and yes, don’t worry, I’ll be yer personal photographer for the day.”

Hangyul holds him up to the promise, dragging him around the square despite the other’s whining. At one point, he walks up to a group of tourists, asking them to take a photo of the two of them together, not even bothering to listen to Minho’s protests. Hangyul’s hold is tight on his waist as he pulls Minho to his side. 

A little tired out, Hangyul offers to buy them roasted chestnuts as a thank you. Minho takes him up on the offer, never one to deny free food. They walk around the hallways of the former market, window shopping being the only thing they could afford to do. Minho sings along to the carols with his mouth full, earning a jab or two to his side from Hangyul, who pretends not to smile. 

Hangyul proposes they take a walk around the area before they come back home, so Minho follows him down one of the less crowded alleyways. Usually rather talkative, Hangyul is oddly quiet now. He looks content, though, lips stretched into a small smile, eyes following the strings of light suspended above them. Suddenly, he halts, turning to face Minho.

“Oh, my God!” 

“What?” Minho asks, confused. 

“Min, look,” Hangyul stretches out his bare palm in mid-air, “snow!”

Minho takes a look around and realises that he’s been so busy looking at Hangyul that he completely missed the moment it started snowing. It’s light, the speck-like flakes barely noticeable as they twirl in the air slowly, melting almost immediately as they set on Hangyul’s skin gently, no bite to it. 

“How is it even possible?” Minho whispers. “It’s barely December.”

“Christmas miracle!” Hangyul offers helpfully, before stretching his tongue out to catch the snowflakes. 

They stay in place for a while, enough to see a thin layer of snow build up on window sills and door porches of the houses they were passing by. Hangyul looks beautiful in the Christmas lights. His hair is adorned with snowflakes, a pale halo framing his face. He’s smiling that goofy, endearing smile, radiating with childlike excitement. The glint in his eyes takes Minho’s breath away, Hangyul seems as happy as though they were at home. Minho can’t find it in him to look away, because he doesn’t think there’s anything in the world he’s like to see more. 

After all, it’s what he stayed in London for. He stayed, because not even home can compare to Hangyul. Hangyul, with his bright eyes, deep voice, boyish laugh that Minho can’t get out of his head if he tried. That’s the thing — he doesn’t even want to. Because Hangyul is comfort, Hangyul is home, Hangyul is his best friend, the one person that makes Minho feel like himself. 

Hangyul is beautiful and  _ fuck _ , Minho likes him. He likes him so much he can’t stay away from him. He should be scared, shocked, angry with himself, but somehow it’s just a gentle realisation, coming to terms with something he already knew deep down. Something that should be terrifying, because he’s not sure Hangyul likes him back and it could impact their relationship in ways Minho dreads to imagine. But it’s something that’s almost as beautiful as Hangyul himself and feels so, so natural, familiar, a little like—

“—home, now?” Minho snaps out of his daze at Hangyul’s question. “It’s getting cold and late.”

“Yeah, we should catch the Tube before it stops running,” Minho remembers, voice a little weaker. He wonders if he’s always sounded so fond before, if Hangyul can tell just how much he’s feeling right now. He doesn’t seem to, though, takes Minho’s hand in his like everything is normal. But it isn’t, not to Minho. Holding Hangyul’s hand is substantially different with the knowledge that he’s got feelings for him. It’s more stressful, but more exhilarating.

“Yer trembling,” Hangyul notices, “you wanna get something warm to drink before we go or…?”

“No, I’ll make it back hame,” Minho says. “I like yer hot chocolate best.”

“Thank you,” Hangyul smiles, pulling their hands out of his pockets and swinging them back and forth. “For spending time with me.”

“Don’t thank me,” Minho says, squeezing his hand, voice uncharacteristically soft instead of the usual snarky. “Yer not a charity case.”

“Minho…”

“Yeah?”

“Do you-“ He pauses.

“What?” Hangyul shakes his head. “No, tell me! Do I what?”

“Never mind, it was stupid,” Hangyul refuses. 

Minho’s curiosity always gets the better of him, so he clings onto Hangyul’s arm like an impatient child, “c’mon, I promise I won’t laugh or anything.”

Hangyul sighs, giving Minho that particular look, something akin to endearment, “I wanted to know wye you stayed, that’s all.”

And God, the answer is so simple, but Minho can’t just say it out loud, not when he just now realised himself. After a minute of thought, he tells him, “you know how in year one we would count days to when we’d get back hame?”

Hangyul nods. 

“I still do,” Minho continues, “or, still keep tabs every once a while. Ten days till reading week, a month till Christmas, that kind of thing.”

“I do, too,” Hangyul reassures him. 

“I know,” Minho remembers the calendar pinned to Hangyul’s cork board in his room, with “X”s marking every passing day. “And, ye ken, I just imagined how I’d be spending Christmas without you this year and I realised that I’ll be back hame, just like I thought I wanted, but I’d still be counting down days until I see you again. And man, sometimes it gets tiring to live for the future, sometimes I just wanna live for now.”

They tap in and head to the escalators through the crowd of people. Hangyul doesn’t respond, probably because he doesn’t get a chance to, with how his voice would drown in the noises echoing across the station. The snowflakes adorning his hair melted away already, leaving them damp on his forehead. Minho reaches out to brush them away with a chuckle. It’s weirdly intimate despite the multitude of people surrounding them. 

“It’s past midnight,” Hangyul notices when they finally return to his dorm. He sets the keys on the coffee table in the kitchen before turning to Minho. “Merry Christmas, Min.”

“Merry Christmas,” Minho climbs up onto the counter. The only light in the room is the dim one coming from the kitchen hood, but neither of them feel like turning on the ceiling lamp. 

“Do you feel like some music?” Hangyul asks. “My flatmates got an Alexa, recently, we can try it out. I use it to play Taylor Swift when they're out.”

“Ooh, that’s fancy,” Hangyul laughs at his enthusiasm as he puts the kettle on. “Alexa, play Christmas & Chill by Ariana Grande.”

“Oh, my God, not Ari—.”  _ “Playing, Christmas & Chill, by, Ariana Grande.” _

Despite Hangyul’s reluctance, he doesn’t change the music, let’s the faint sound fill up the room, adding to the atmosphere. Hangyul makes them honey tea, and the scent warms Minho up before the drink can. He does gratuitously welcome the steaming cup, humming softly as his hands regain feeling.

“Oh, since it’s Christmas already,”he remembers suddenly, “I got me gift fer you.”

“You stayed,” Hangyul shakes his head, “that’s gift enough.”

“Stop talkin’ keech,” Minho shushes him. “You know what you told me you hate about London?”

“Everything?” Hangyul raises his brow. 

“Uh, that too, I guess. I mean, like, one specific thing,” met with Hangyul’s clueless expression, Minho digs inside the pocket of his bomber to retrieve his present. “Here.”

“Screwdriver?” Hangyul blinks, looking at the tool, with a tacky red ribbon to match his sweater tied neatly around the handle. “Is it, like, a Scottish screwdriver I don’t recall saying I wanted when I got pished on Tesco whiskey?”

“Naw, naw, numpty,” Minho points at the kitchen window, “it’s for the restrictors.”

“Restrictors?”

“Fer yer windaes, ye ken? You said you hate them restrictors, because you can’t open the windae properly and look out,” Minho explains. “I noticed me flatmate had hers removed and lassie taught me how to pan ‘em, or like, get them oaf and then back in when you need, so that you don’t get fined for taking them oot.”

“I told you about it months ago…” Hangyul’s jaw is still slightly ajar, eyes veiled with disbelief as they meet Minho’s. “You remembered.”

“‘Course I did,” Minho snorts, “cried about it like a wee lass for an hour.”

“Shut up,” Hangyul laughs, “I got you something, too.”

Minho swings his legs in the air as Hangyul disappears into his room to retrieve the gift. It’s neatly wrapped, unlike Minho’s poor attempt at packaging. He unwraps the ribbon holding down the lid of a glossy red box. He takes it off to reveal a pair of elegant suede gloves that he can tell Hangyul paid a lot for, despite his complete lack of understanding of fashion.

“Yer hands always get well cold,” Hangyul explains. “And you never have a pair on you, ‘cuz—”

“—I lose them,” Minho laughs. “I’m gonna lose those sooner or later, ye ken?”

“No, you won’t,” Hangyul says, “you’d feel bad if you lost something I gave you. It’s a foolproof plan to keep yer hands warm for the rest of winter.”

“You seem to know me very well,” Minho says, beckoning for Hangyul to come closer to give him a hug, “thank you.”

“You, too,” Hangyul rests his head against Minho’s shoulder. “As in, you know me well, too. We’re a good team, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Minho whispers, “I love you, Gyul. I know it’s cheesy to say that, and all, ‘cuz we’re mates, but—”

“Are we?” Hangyul interrupts him, pulling away slightly.

“What?”

“Are we really just mates?” Hangyul is impossibly close to him, his breath hitting Minho’s skin, setting it on fire, as he speaks. Minho closes his eyes. 

“Dunno,” he mumbles, not daring to look at Hangyul. “Are we, Gyul?”

“I think,” Hangyul pauses. Minho swallows heavily, bracing himself for impact. “I think I don’t wanna be. I wanna be more. What do  _ you _ want?”

Right now, Minho wants everything he can get. Minho wants to drop out of university and elope to America with Hangyul, live in a small cottage in New England with their thirty cats and a pet cow, spend the rest of their life with him.

“I really wanna kiss you,” Minho says instead. 

“I wanna kiss you all the time,” Hangyul confesses, cupping Minho’s cheeks, “that’s all I can think about sometimes. You say…things, ye ken, in typical Minho fashion, and I go crazy. It takes so long to respond coherently to anything you say.”

“Because you want to kiss me?”

“Mhm,” Hangyul rests their foreheads together and brushes his nose against Minho’s, “all the time. It’s brain damage.”

“I think yer brain is perfectly fine,” Minho shrugs, “I’d know.”

“Aren’t you a wee bit too biased?” Hangyul raises his brow.

“Oh, absolutely,” Minho admits, “but I’ll have a degree to back me up, just wait a year.”

“You’re gonna make me wait another year to kiss you?” Hangyul whines jokingly. “You’re cruel. I’ve waited too long.”

“How long?” Minho circles his legs around Hangyul’s waist.

_ “It’s embarrassing.” _

“I didn’t ask if it was embarrassing I asked how long.”

“College,” Hangyul reveals, “I’ve liked you since I met you.”

It takes Minho by surprise, because they weren’t close then. Of course, he knew Hangyul. He noticed him, because Hangyul always made it hard not to. But he can’t wrap his head around the fact that Hangyul paid attention to him, let alone like him. 

And maybe he liked him, too, all this time, but only just realised. Maybe somewhere between Hangyul offering to drive to London together when they first moved, or Hangyul wishing him good luck before his each of his exams, or proofreading each other’s personal statements, or maybe even the first college party Minho went to, where a half-drunk Hangyul decided to mix him a drink and it tasted like ass, but Minho pretended it was good, because he liked seeing the smile on his face — maybe he’s been in love with him all along. 

Not wanting to wait any longer for what’s been long overdue, Minho grabs whatever is closest to him and raises it above their heads, “look, mistletoe.”

“That’s a kitchen towel, Min,” Hangyul enlightens him. 

Before Minho can tell him it’s not the time to question semantics, Hangyul kisses him anyways. He snatches the cloth from Minho’s hands and throws it to the side, letting Minho rest his arms on his shoulders instead. 

And when Minho closes his eyes, putting all of his focus on Hangyul, he doesn’t need to pretend he’s back in Dundee. It feels like he is, it really does for a second, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than in the dark, on Hangyul’s dirty kitchen counter with Ariana Grande playing in the background. 

It’s some sort of miracle, but Hangyul can make anywhere feel like home. 

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday legend!!! ilysm
> 
> [buy me a ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/joonswig) // talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/midzyonce)


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